


Monday, Half Past Four

by TruckThat



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Frottage, M/M, PWP, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 15:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6710470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TruckThat/pseuds/TruckThat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The moon that lingered over London town</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown</i>
  <br/>
  <i>How could he know we two were so in love</i>
  <br/>
  <i>The whole damned world seemed up-side-down</i>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Crowley decides that almost any course of action is justified if it manages to distract him from the fact that it's been nearly two days and so far <i>nothing else is going wrong</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monday, Half Past Four

**Author's Note:**

> Ah yes, the classic two-days-after-the-apocalypse Good Omens porn fic, a rite of fanfic-writing passage since 1990. Except somehow, despite being a moderate fan of Neil Gaiman and a HUGE fan of Terry Pratchett, I read Good Omens for the very first time last summer. Then I re-read it a bit ago and obviously had to write the same fic that everyone else has already written because, like, dude. _Dude_. I feel like... there's a time and a place for elaborate plots and also a time and a place for 5000 words of frottage. Ya feel?
> 
> The lyrics in the description are of course from "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square." (The Vera Lynn recording—my version of choice—doesn't go for "damned" but I can't resist an obvious joke so here we are.)

Cowardice is one of the smaller sins. Still, some days (some weeks, more like) you have to know your limits. You have to take pride in what you've got, especially when the alternative is choosing to dwell on the apocalypses you may or may not have failed to bring about. For example: there's still been no news from Hell and, as far as Crowley's heard—and he's even bothered _asking_ —nothing from Heaven either. Not a word. Two full days of total radio silence. You'd think on the second day of the rest of everyone's life it would be time to get on with the fall-out. Initial optimism aside, Crowley was there when they invented  bureaucracy and he knows the cardinal rule: there's always going to be fall-out. At least paperwork. Possibly torture or job reassignment. It's this thought, among quite a few other very unwelcome ones, that's currently got Crowley standing twitchily in the middle of the sidewalk, undecided. He's about to crawl out of his skin, scales or no scales.

_Oh, grow a pair already_ , Crowley snarls to himself, and reaches out to—well, he might as well not have bothered, because Aziraphale opens the door from the inside before Crowley can get to it.

"A pair of what?" Aziraphale inquires, gesturing Crowley in on the insufferably twee tinkling the shop bell. His tone is so mild that it might almost be possible to believe that he didn't know _exactly_ of what. There's a certain sly glance that he has—that Crowley usually rather likes, as a point of fact—that says otherwise. Crowley deigns to come in despite this. Before he flips the sign around and locks up, Aziraphale ruins the effect anyway by leaning out past Crowley to look both ways up and down the empty pavement like the nervous sort of angel he is.

"No use looking; there's no one out there," Crowley is horrified to find himself admitting. "Er. It's just—"

Yes, better not to finish that thought off. Aziraphale leans back in and squints frumpily at him for a bit, as if he might need his reading glasses on to make out the problem. The problem being that there is _no one out there_. No one of note, anyway.

"Right," Aziraphale says with a decisive nod. Finally. Thank Adam. There is, after all, a reason that Crowley has come here. "So it's a drink, then?"

" _Yes_. Um. Yeah. Yeah, that would be..." Crowley shifts foot to foot in the entry, suddenly vaguely embarrassed even though this was the entire plan.

One side of Aziraphale's mouth twitches up traitorously. "... Helpful?"

"Thank you," Crowley says with great and fervent dignity, "yes. The very word I was looking for. A stiff drink would be extremely helpful. Right now. _Very_ stiff."

"In that case," Aziraphale says graciously, shutting the door behind them at-fucking-last, "I am happy to assist. A remarkable amount of my cellar appears to have survived being completely immolated and then reconstituted from the ether." There are an alarming number of times when Crowley cannot tell whether Aziraphale is having him on or not. He doesn't worry about it. Honestly he's just relieved to have a firmly closed door between him and... everything else in the entire world, now that he's had time to remember that he doesn't trust it not to go tits-up all at once. It smells like dusty books and wet London sunshine in the shop, like all of the very best things he associates with Aziraphale. He breathes it in, lets himself taste it on his tongue. There's no help for it. The latch is shut with the sign turned closed and Crowley feels his hackles go down about six inches. He's here in this place that is Aziraphale's and he is _safe_.

Really, he's being ridiculous. He's no safer here than at his own apartment—no less safe, either, given the 50/50 chance that no one who counts even remembers what happened. He could stand in the middle of Tower Bridge and recite the Lord's Prayer and the situation would be exactly the same. Crowley tries to tell that to all the little springs of existential dread inside him that have come unsprung all at once. He's been trying that for the past day and a half, on the grounds that just because positive thinking and visualization haven't worked doesn't mean that they _can't_ work. They must work for someone.

Before they can work for Crowley though, Aziraphale finishes up fussing with the deadbolt and the security system and whatever else and gets another look at him. Seriously looks at him this time, without the squint. Crowley is a wreck, certainly, but the issue here is that he's apparently such an obvious wreck that Aziraphale just _knows_ it _._ His whole stance changes with it, which also decides the point—he was definitely joking, before.

Pity Crowley didn't work it out in time to save a bit of face.

"Never mind," Aziraphale says, and there, he feels his entrails shrivel up with a final wave of dread. That seals Crowley's fate. "It's too early for it, I take it back. We aren't drinking. We're going to bed."

"It's not even five o'clock yet," says Crowley, in one of the least relevant sentences of his entire existence.

"Precisely."

If there's a way to argue the point, Crowley doesn't think of it in time. Doesn't really try. He's too numb with horror to consider the effort of resisting. Anyway Aziraphale already has him by the suit sleeve and has dragged him most of the way up the creaky back stair that leads to the part of his attached flat that Crowley has never been to—that is, the part that is _not_ his kitchen.

Crowley scrapes to a halt. "Angel," he says. Strangely it's the sight of Aziraphale's fussily-made, surprisingly not tartan bedspread that has finally ground him back into gear. Having a clear course of action presented to him after several days of increasing paranoia should be a relief. In fact it's exactly what he dragged himself here practically begging for. He'd like to leave again, now that he has it. "Sorry, I'm just making sure, but what on _earth_ do you think we're doing here?"

"Erm." Aziraphale sounds a little chagrined. Even so, he turns to Crowley surprisingly _not_ all afluster and manages to stare him straight in the eye. He doesn't give him his arm back.  "Sex. I'd assumed it was obvious."

"Yes, I can bloody well see that much, thank you. It's occurred to me to ask you _why_." Just, he'd really thought that course of action could be to get drunk again, maybe talk it out a second time around and see if the relief of having solved it all would stick this time. Not _this_ , which yes, is obviously sex. In Aziraphale's bedroom. They don't do sex, ordinarily, is the thing. They do dinner. With wine. Usually decorously after five-thirty PM so as to avoid getting strange looks at the Ritz, Aziraphale has a point, but in this case he'd thought they might make an exception and go straight for the hard stuff.

They've made exceptions before, alas.

And also, he'd expected that the bedspread would be tartan, to complete the horrific scenario. Nothing in here is tartan, not even the curtains. It's all a rather tasteful dark blue. There's a potted fern, and the pot looks like one of Crowley's own discards. It's disappointingly restrained.

They stare each other down. In perhaps the only decisive personal victory Crowley has attained in nearly a week, Aziraphale goes rather red in the face and cracks first. "Well, but it seems such a shame to go a whole eternity without trying it," he says with a bit of a dither and then with that same horrifying degree of determination. He's gotten the full measure of Crowley's exhaustion, he's seared Crowley right to his jelly centre just by looking, and in typical half-cocked fashion he's decided to go ahead do the pulling for both of them. By _trying it_. Crowley's eyebrows are crawling their way above his sunglasses and into to his hairline; he can feel them.

"Consider who you're talking to, you absolute ninny. Of course _I've_ tried it." It's in the job description, and not even the small-print part either.

"Right. Er," says the angel, like he has the effrontery not to _believe_ him. "As have I. But as much affection as I have for humans in general, you have to admit that there are some areas where one can't quite meet them on an equal footing."

Crowley takes a moment to be deeply, profoundly, irreversibly, and completely shocked.

"What—say, Aziraphale, you're not—" That is _not_ in Aziraphale's very, very different job description.

"It would, as I said, be a pity and a sin to live forever without making an effort to _live_ once in a while, Crowley." As if this kind of—of preposterously wanton carry-on should have been obvious. From the gatekeeper of Eden! And where would he have— _when_ would he have? On this tidy, dusty bed with its navy comforter? Or in back of some mud-brick tavern on the Nile? Crowley opens his mouth to insist on his very real right to righteous surprise and perhaps something that edges into betrayal, but nothing seems to be quite the right way to express it. Aziraphale apparently mistakes this for open-mouthed invitation and finally, _finally_ drops the other shoe.

Being kissed by an angel is an awful lot like being kissed by anything else with quite a bit of enthusiasm and only a moderate amount of practice. The main difference is that as soon as it starts happening, everything in Crowley's head goes utterly, cleanly silent like a light switch flicking to off. It kicks him right in the gut with how much he _wants this to be happening_ ; it winds him; he isn't likely to recover.

He didn't quite expect to slide into it so easily that he's not even thinking of recovery. And yet. His sleeve is released; Aziraphale miraculously manages to turn the relinquishing of it into a caress that gets him quite a bit closer instead of farther away, his palms at Crowley's elbows and then his shoulder blades. Not rushing, not at all, but breathlessly fast _._ This is because by some accident Crowley has stepped into their kiss; slotted their shoes in together on the hardwood, and their knees, and their thighs; and he's taller but not by much so it's _easy_ —and he catches himself there, with his knuckles brushing along Aziraphale's jawline tilting him just so and his eyes closed but he doesn't remember when. They are standing there _together_ , touching all the way down their fronts. The surprised sound he makes is muffled, somewhat, and comes out rather softer and more ardent than he'd known it was going to be.

"See?" Aziraphale says, not pulling back but just talking right into Crowley's mouth like this is a Sunday conversation in the park. He takes Crowley's bewilderment and runs with it, uses the momentum and a fair handful of Crowley's suit jacket to spill them both inelegantly sideways onto the bed. Crowley goes along like he actually meant to, so that by the time Aziraphale is all the way on top of him it's Crowley who's stroking the back of his neck in an urgent request with one thumb sneaking a little extra skin at the V of his collar. It's Crowley, somehow, who's spreading his knees a little to get them as horizontal as possible as fast as he can and thinking about getting farther than that, about getting _naked_ , in a way that's dangerous for someone of Crowley's nature because it means that immediately, Aziraphale's shirt collar isn't there at all anymore. Aziraphale wheezes at being abruptly down to nothing but his trousers. Then he catches Crowley's distraught inability not to try and pull back to stare and the wheeze is actually Aziraphale laughing a bit madly, pressed in right up against Crowley's ear. He gets rid of the trousers too—Crowley is _sure_ that wasn't him—for both of them.

He's exquisite. A perfect living thing, all flesh and substance and a blotchy but nice kind of flush that's delicious, if not strictly a prerequisite for Crowley wanting to swallow him down whole.

Completely at odds with the speed at which they've undressed each other, Aziraphale slides back slowly to stare down with those impossibly light, clear eyes. He props himself up and lets his fingertips tick along, over Crowley's collarbone and his chest and further; he rests them just above Crowley's navel. Like he's feeling Crowley breathe.

_Oh, Hell,_ Crowley thinks, the first whole, calm thought he's had in a while. His stomach hollows itself out from the inside. _Oh—Dante, I'm done for; this is going to be an absolute disaster._ Really. Forget humiliation, this is going to _end_ him. He doesn't so much think this last as know it with unshakable certainty.

"Waste of a miracle, angel," is what he says out loud, trying not to sound like his heart's attempting to batter its way out of his ribcage before it's too late for escape.

Aziraphale goes rigid. His fingers dig in. "I could say the same of yours, but you'll notice I haven't," he says with narrowed eyes and a tiny, barbed edge of pique. It's surprisingly nasty of him, where a second ago he'd been _laughing_. And Crowley had been—well. Yes. There it is, isn't it? Crowley's not the only one a bit exposed.

"I didn't mean it like that, you massive idiot." He's exactly as happy to see Aziraphale naked as Aziraphale is to see him, which is to say: evidently thrilled. Gasping for it, honestly, now that they're here.

"Was I intended to take that as a _compliment_ , then?" Aziraphale snips, his sharp bastard of an angel, only for once Crowley doesn't particularly want him in a huff. Despite his affront, Aziraphale's cock is fat and warm and just the barest bit wet—Crowley lets it go straight to his head, fizzingly, prematurely; it feels so damn _good—_ against Crowley's inner thigh.

 So Crowley grins his best, snakiest grin and shifts deliberately underneath him. Instantly, it's a mistake. The ploy does a terrible job of distracting either of them from their nudity, and it doesn't take the edge out of Aziraphale's glare. What it does do very well is let Crowley feel the whole weight of Aziraphale above him and around him and _against_ him, immediate and pressing, and he hitches to a fast stop.

Aziraphale's throat works silently, in an obvious counterpoint of desire and irritation that Crowley knows intimately. It's the same thing that Crowley feels. Exactly the same as he feels, only inside-out and scrambled because Crowley wants more than anything to grab Aziraphale by the ears and finish kissing him, carry straight on with grinding his mortifyingly urgent erection into Aziraphale's hip without thought of consequence, and idiotically it's somehow Aziraphale who is having second thoughts about his own terrible idea. Crowley swallows down a slow shiver and doesn't repeat the error of moving. He refuses to be distracted by his own wiles. He's prepared to hang on to the thread of the conversation by his teeth if necessary—which was compliments, the exchange of. Right. The pause between them is now horrendously long. "I certainly took it as one, angel," he finally says. Because it _was_ a compliment, of course; Aziraphale doesn't squander his miracles for just any old demon.

"Hmph," Aziraphale huffs anyway and Crowley enjoys this small show of spite despite himself, and then Aziraphale punishes him for it by the ingenious method of giving Crowley exactly what he wants and sliding in again to kiss. The thread of the conversation is lost as Aziraphale pins him out flat.

Humans have this fascinatingly backwards idea that there's only two ways to take this kind of thing: either take it so slowly that there's some danger of one or both mortal parties dying before the deed is accomplished, _i.e._ wait for marriage, or straightaway go absolutely all the way dick-up-the-arse homerun or whatever vulgar euphemism the Americans are using these days. In the latter case, at least there's something to be said for beginning as you mean to go on. Still, Crowley begins to suspect they are missing the point.

The point being that Aziraphale isn't really too angry, in fact he's absolutely _lovely_ —or maybe that's Crowley, projecting things—and so solid on top of Crowley that he's content to just press up against him and let the simple pleasure of a little friction sprawl them both out slowly. He's seen (and enjoyed, and not enjoyed, and also laughed confusedly at) plenty of porn over the years. More than enough to know that this is the part where someone moans and someone else says "stick it in me" and then you really go to town. He's tried it that way, both ways, and it's fine; it's not bad at all, that kind of thing. But Crowley has an increasingly urgent handful of Aziraphale's hips and the other hand clutched distractedly into that fucking comforter. He's not sure if he's looking for a foundation or for leverage, but he is _busy_.

He's busy and Aziraphale is contrary, of course he is, and as soon as Crowley manages to haul him into a successful angle Aziraphale shifts, gets his hands in Crowley's hair, and just rearranges them.  The sound he drags out of Crowley is strangled right between frustrated and hopeful, is sweet because Aziraphale has got both his knees between Crowley's thighs and now their cocks drag together. Aziraphale nips at the delicate edge of Crowley's ear and is not as gentle as he could be about it. It's sharp and tingly and sends a jolt straight through his chest, and it might have been an act of revenge but that jolt spills out of Crowley in a hoarse gasp. Aziraphale doesn't stop to clarify his intentions, just slides a sure hand between them again to thumb across Crowley's nipple and get Crowley to jerk and then arch again, harder. Aziraphale doesn't say a thing, in fact, not one smug word. Crowley gives up on anchoring himself and digs the fingers of both hands into Aziraphale's waist, and forgets to even _think_ of sticking anything in anywhere. He'd like more of _that_ , if you please, firm and overwhelming and above all certain of its purpose, and Aziraphale gives it to him freely.

If Crowley had thought about it beforehand—ha, _if_ —he would have imagined Aziraphale soft and dreamy-eyed and probably wittering a bit irritatingly in bed. But if Aziraphale isn't exactly fancy, he's goddamn _effective_ instead. Crowley will have marks, little delicate ones, all along his throat, and he rather thinks he might forget to wish them away.

There's none of the thrill of small mischief associated with instilling a bit of misplaced lust, here. Not that Crowley, in his heart of reptilian hearts, has ever been much of one for that sort of thrill of the flesh. He's more for the margaritas-on-the-beach, sloth-and-a-killer-suntan kind of thrill, overall, when you break it right down. More of a basker, really. And still, he'd argue that this is something better, or worse, but at the very least something more. This is Aziraphale touching him all slow and thorough and keenly interested and awakening in Crowley a great and cosmic _thrill._ This is not something that could be described as kissing, anymore.

Although certainly, definitely, they are kissing too.

" _Ah_ ," Crowley gasps, trying to get Aziraphale's attention—or maybe to disperse his attention, rather, from where it is currently too much, "ah, _angel_... I think..."

"Oh, can't you stay shut up? Just," he digs teeth very sharply into what was already a bruise and Crowley goes breathlessly, bonelessly, all the way pliant, " _stay._ And shut up. And stop _thinking_."

Well, it's not like he was thinking anything _important_. Only, he's a bit worried he's going to come unspooled entirely, either because of what they are doing or because of what they've _done_. And it's been a long bloody time since he had any kind of a problem and his instinct wasn't just: Aziraphale.

So Crowley cants one leg around Aziraphale and reaches. And discovers to his surprise that while he's been distracted, he is already very fucking close indeed. Much too close for Aziraphale's obliging shift for more contact, faster, to be helping at all.

"Hey," Crowley rasps. He's unbearably, unspeakably close, actually; ratcheting closer, and he wants to close his eyes against it. He's desperate to come _now_ , or just possibly never. He breaks off, craning backwards as best he can, shoving at Aziraphale with complete ineffectiveness.

" _No_ ," says Aziraphale, sex-addled and not to be broken off with, and moves when Crowley does, follows him blind and open-mouthed and looking to finish it.

The hair at his temples and the nape of his neck is dampened to dark gold with sweat and he's hectic red now right up to his ears. So absolutely himself and full of grace that Crowley can feel it punch straight through him, more than arousal and worse than lust. It's almost enough to make Crowley take pity on both of them, close the gap again, and let this end.

"Hey," Crowley tries again instead, firmer, "hey, slow up a minute. I, uh." He takes a second to just breathe, and Aziraphale ruins it by bracing himself to work his mouth against Crowley's throat at the place where he can feel his own frantic pulse. The urge to give in is, oh, more than an urge, it's a growing necessity. Crowley forgets what he's about and drags both hands up and then down the pale, defenceless softness of Aziraphale's sides and the angel curves down into Crowley's touch with his entire body, hopelessly. Irritation at himself gives Crowley the strength to dig his thumb in at the hollow of Aziraphale's hip and still him by force, one-handed. " _Wait._ You pillock."

"Crowley. For God's sake," Aziraphale pants—prays, really, it's got to count as a prayer, considering the source. How _embarrassing_. He twitches, somewhere between a restless movement and a miserable one. And lets himself be stilled despite it. " _Crowley,_ I'm..."

"Yeah." Yes, definitely, he knows exactly. There's a sweetness in waiting, in holding off at the highest point. Even so, he is dry-mouthed with how badly he wants to carry on.  The hand still at Aziraphale's waist digs in convulsively. Crowley is almost defeated with the need to push, pull, _drag_ them both back into motion. Breathing fast and shallow, he resists. He runs the tips of his fingers up Aziraphale's back instead; the edges of his nails, gentle, trace the knobs of Aziraphale's neck. He lingers there for a second, feeling, staying, not trying to catch his breath but just feeling Aziraphale lose _his_. Just being _close enough_ to feel it. The angel makes a tiny, indefinable sound, and Crowley slides his fingers into the back of his hair and twists a little nastily. Just to prove he's still got it. Aziraphale snaps back to attention with an "umpf" and opens his mouth like he might have said more, too, maybe something sharp, but Crowley feels that yank in his own gut—ah, but he's in a desperate situation and there's nothing for it. He is pulling Aziraphale in to kiss and pressing himself _up_ at the same time, pressing up hard enough he can feel his spine creak. Aziraphale catches his teeth in the kiss and it's probably on purpose; he probably deserves it. He doesn't care, just does presses up and pulls down harder, slower, with Aziraphale slow and concrete and ecstatic above him, Aziraphale trying for purchase against his shoulders and then catching himself desperately at the pillow by Crowley's head.

"Crowley, I _can't_ —" his breath rasps against Crowley's temple, useless.

"Come on," Crowley slurs, helplessly contradicting himself, "come on, you've _got to,_ " and they're both so almightily close that it's all a long, rushing, jagged collapse into irresistible inertia, after that.

The rest is not quite silence but it's close.

 

"Er," Crowley says, once the quiet and the weight of Aziraphale half sprawled on top of him starts feeling more sticky than sweet, "um."

Aziraphale gets enough leverage back to give him a profoundly stupid look that nonetheless has both fondness and exasperation all around the edges. One of them should probably be laughing about all of this, starting _right now_ , but instead it makes Crowley want to go satisfied and stupid right back at him. He's almost ready to forget all about dinner, ineffability, bureaucracy, and whatever other rubbish he'd been about to froth over with about half an hour ago. Which was obviously Aziraphale's scheme all along, here, and Crowley won't forget to tell him exactly what he thinks of it. Only. The necessity of revenge has reminded Crowley that there's a niggling doubt. A difference of roles, as it were. "Angel, it's just... well, it's all right for me, isn't it? I'm already Fallen." And Aziraphale isn't, Aziraphale _can't_ ; Crowley won't be responsible. He'll refuse first. He'll refuse _last_ , come to that, even if it takes his final breath to do it.

"Fallen?" Aziraphale, bless him, _fuck_ him, doesn't laugh. Quite. "It was hardly anything so dramatic, the way I recall it. There was a rebellion. I've always supposed you just sort of thought everything up there was all... bollocks. Erm. As it were. And so there was an opportunity and you left; no harm, no foul as far as I can see."

"No, nothing except for all the _millennia of harming and befouling,_ you great wet prat. I don't think you'd fancy it." He can't even say "bollocks" without wincing, for pity's sake.

"Right," says Aziraphale, slowly, crisply, like he's telegraphing his rebuttal for a very novice debate team opponent, "but unlike some people, I value the tenure of my position. I'm not aiming to leave, bollocks or no bollocks. So." The wincing is a little less comic the second time around. He curls into Crowley, so huffily certain of his welcome, so certain that Crowley will just curl himself in too, that somehow Crowley goes and does it.

"'S bollocks all the way down anyway, you ask me," he mumbles, and hopes it doesn't sound petulant.

"Well. Yes, of course it is." Oh Almighty... _everything_ , and to top it all off Aziraphale is stroking his _hair_. This has to be the mistake of the millennium, worse than disco dancing or the Freemasons or even microwave cookbooks. Worse than standing on the wrong side of Armageddon with just a tyre iron in your hand and no one on your side but a worse-for-wear angel whom you'd trust, oh, let's say just about to hell and back again. It's so unbelievably soothing that Crowley actually finds himself completely soothed. All the way right down to the very pit of him, where something black and spiny and poisonous and very much afraid finally thinks, _well, that's all right then_ , and goes peacefully belly-up at last. "But it's a living, isn't it? Most of the time. And, come to think of it, at least now we _know_."

It turns out it is possible to love someone so fiercely and so long that the ache of it is normalized. You forget that the feeling of it is even inside you; perhaps you forget that you feel anything at all. Crowley crushes his forehead into the slightly squidgy edge of Aziraphale's collarbone and remembers all at once what it is about love that has the power to smite.

He drags a scratchy breath in, against Aziraphale's sweat-salty neck. "Drink?" Somewhere nice. Somewhere... not so _here_ , not so important. He'll pay.

"Yes, definitely," Aziraphale agrees without moving. Crowley can feel the vibrations of him when he talks. He keeps on breathing.  All the air in the room tastes like angel. Like the echo of a place that Crowley barely remembers and isn't sure that he liked so much. "Drink _s_. Multiples of."


End file.
